Peculiar Feelings
by Duchess Emma
Summary: Sherlock's strange feelings for Molly Hooper are a mystery to him. What happens after the confrontation with Moriarty? The rating will likely go up, I love smut.
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own _Sherlock_ or anything by the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. _

So, I really should've have wrote this. Not only do I have two unfinished stories on this website already, but I'm in the middle of what can only be described as "academic purgatory" for the next 6 days. But as the Bard replies in William Blake's "Milton", "I am inspired!". So thus I was compelled to write this.

**Enjoy my procrastination!**

Chapter 1

The two men were alone in the London flat. Bach's Violin Sonata No.1 in G minor rang throughout the comfortable and strangely furnished home on 221B Baker St.

Sherlock Holmes sawed away on his violin as Dr. Watson read the paper in his favorite chair.

Yet abruptly Sherlock stopped playing and threw himself rather dramatically onto the couch. He settled back, eyes on the ceiling, and let out a loud sigh.

"I thought you had solved the case already," Watson replied not looking up. By now he was rather used to the violin playing and occasional theatrics of his flatmate.

"I did," Sherlock responded, eyes still on the ceiling.

"Well then, what seems to be the issue?" Watson asked.

"I feel…strange."

"Strange, eh? Hmmm, wait, you feel things?"

"Don't be tart, Watson. It doesn't suit," came Sherlock's bored voice.

"Fine. What is this strangeness you're feeling?" the doctor paused, "You're not ill, are you? Everything has healed up from the confrontation with Moriarty?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Dr. Watson. I'm bored.. And restlessness. Just strange. Not myself," he bit out the last few phrases, decidedly confused by his peculiar mood.

"Could this be about Moriarty? Are you still trying to puzzle out where he's gone? How he escaped?"

"I suppose. He is my most diabolical enemy. And crafty to boot. And I did so enjoy sparring with him. Or at least I think I did. Now it feels like…a foolish game. And one I'm not eager to play again."

"Ah," said Watson with the air of someone who understood exactly what the problem was. Sherlock glanced away from the ceiling at the short syllable, disdainful of Watson's knowing look. Watson continued to read the paper, ignoring Sherlock's expression.

"Well, do enlighten us, doctor. What seems to be my problem? With all the cash you spent on that psychiatrist when we first met, you've bound to have gleaned some knowledge of the human psyche. It might help you with mine."

"You won't like it," said Watson, turning another page.

"Come now, dazzle me, my dear Watson. It must feel good to know something that I don't."

With the sigh, Watson looked up from his paper and simply said, "The game got personal."

Making a face, Sherlock flopped back on the couch as he began, "I suppose. Moriarty needn't have gone after you—" but he was interrupted.

"Oh, this isn't about me. I'm in danger all the time. Being near you is a hazard. Like being in the middle of a battle. And I've been to war. No, it was more than that."

Alert and skeptical, Sherlock straightened into a sitting position. "More than what?" he asked in a questioning tone.

"Molly."

"Molly?" said Sherlock, incredulous, "You mean Molly Hooper from St. Bart's? Mousy Molly who can barely utter a coherent sentence in my presence?"

"That's the one," Watson said.

"And tell me, my dear Watson, what has Molly to do with any of this?"

"Moriarty went after her because of you.," Watson replied.

Throwing himself back onto the couch, he said "Well, that much is obvious to anyone. I'm not impressed."

"I haven't gotten to my main point.." 

"Which is?"

"You have feelings for her. And Moriarty knew that."

A snort of derision flared from the patrician nose, "Try another theory, Watson. You've been reading too many mystery stories or romance novels or whatever twaddle Sarah keeps around her apartment. Besides, I thought I couldn't feel things."

"Sarah reads true crime novels. And you pretend that you don't feel things, makes it easier for you. I warned you, I said you wouldn't like it," Watson said.

"I don't like it, but mostly because it's inaccurate, illogical. Feelings for Molly? No, no indeed."

"The gentleman doth protest too much, me thinks."

"Well, go one then. You haven't dazzled me, but you have amused me. Tell me more about these 'feelings' I have for the morgue dwelling, cat loving spinster."

Looking up, Watson smirked, "You do have it bad. You're usually blunt, but insults about Molly? That's rather telling. When was the last time you saw her?"

"I haven't seen Molly in nearly two weeks. She's out of town" he said matter of factly.

"She's avoiding you."

"What? How do you know that?"

"It's rather obvious."

Frustrated with the direction of this conversation, "How?"

"She might move to Leeds."

"Leeds?"

"Yeah, some change of scenery after the whole incident. She got offered a good position up there," said Watson.

"But….I need her here."

"And the plot thickens."

"Not in that way. She's my in at St. Bart's. Despite my crime-solving prowess, very few people let me do as I please. She gets me access to the things I need," said Sherlock.

"And you're in love with her."

He shot up, "What? Now I think you're the one with the mental problem. In love? Me? And with that particular woman? Love is a fickle and trival emotion made up by poets and greeting card makers. It's merely chemicals going off in our brains. And I don't even have the chemicals to mix up that particular concoction," he snorted. "Love? Love indeed."

Suddenly serious, Watson put down his paper and gave Sherlock his full attention, "One of these days, Sherlock, you'll have to acknowledge that you're part of the human race. For all your powers of observation and deduction, you never turn those keen eyes of yours inward. You might be surprised by what you unearth."

Suddenly speechless, Sherlock settled back on the couch. The conversation did nothing to quell the strangeness.

FINIS

**If you got the first line's reference to Doris Lessing's **_**The Golden Notebook**_** then you deserve a cookie. **

**What say you? Did you think this scene was in character? What did you think of the dialogue between Watson and Sherlock? Where should this go?**

**Please review! I love feedback. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own_ Sherlock_ or anything by the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

**This is a pretty long chapter. I'm rather pleased with it. Enjoy! The rating went up, just to be safe. (Wink, wink)**

Chapter 2

He didn't know how he got here.

Well, he got into a cab and told the driver to take him to Molly's apartment in Shoreditch Then he had snuck in the front door of her building, behind an old woman who smelled like mothballs.

But he wasn't certain what exactly brought him to this spot outside Molly's door. He couldn't determine the motivation behind this action and Sherlock was nothing if not driven by motive. He just knew that he had to see her. John's earlier announcement had put him into a damned state of mind. He needed to see her. To determine the truth for himself. Yet here he stood uncertain of himself and uncertain of his own reason.

So he did the only thing that seemed to make sense: he knocked.

He heard some shuffling inside before a voice rang out muffled and agitated from the other side of the door, "What do you want, Sherlock?"

Unused to the terse sound of her voice, Sherlock asked, "Molly? Is that you? Won't you let me in?"

"I think not. I'm very busy, Sherlock. I don't have time for your games."

She sounded strangely…exasperated. Usually Molly was eager to help him. To see him. Very eager. Mind, he'd never come to her apartment but she was never one to just turn him down outright.

Still unsettled by this sudden change in her attitude, he put forth his silkiest and most pleading voice, the one that worked the best on her, "Please? It's rather important. And I could really use a cup of tea and some biscuits."

"I don't have tea or biscuits. And whatever it is, it'll have to wait. I'll be at the lab tomorrow, you can ask for my help then. Right now, I'm not available. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Molly, are—" he was about to ask about Leeds when he was interrupted.

"I said goodnight, Sherlock"

And he heard her feet move away from the door. When had Molly become so impolite? And when had she ever turned him down? "too busy" and "unavailable"? She was never unavailable for him. Anything he needed she was always there to help. She was always ready with an awkward joke, a ridiculous comment or even a mooning glance.

Grumbling down the stairs, he supposed that he had come to rely on her availability. And maybe just a little bit on her adoration. People were always impressed with his skill but repulsed by the consequences of his deductions. He was never "normal" and didn't have normal relationships. John's friendship had been unexpected. But Molly's crush was predictable. She was a young lonely woman who was daily surrounded by murder and mayhem. It was only natural that she would develop a crush on the enigmatic consulting detective. A crush that Sherlock had exploited for his own gain.

But he wasn't in love with Molly. No indeed. He still thought the idea ridiculous.

No matter that he was feeling more than a little panicked by her abrupt rejection. No matter that he looked forward to seeing her tomorrow more than he ever had before.

It was only because he needed her for his work and if she left, he would have to start all over again at St. Bart's. Find someone else to moon over him. Someone else to exploit for medical favors.

Yes, that was it. Sherlock Holmes hated change.

And Molly Hooper leaving St. Bart's was a change he couldn't bear.

* * *

><p>She was ready to deal with Sherlock. Nearly.<p>

Molly took a deep breath as she used her scalpel to slice a U-shaped incision into the chest of Mrs. Timmons of Westminster. Work always steadied her nerves. She had long ago rid her self of even the slightest squeamishness that accompanied her position at St. Bart's.

It wasn't that she didn't like it here. Rather the opposite. St. Bart's was a great hospital and working in the lab, well, there was never a dull day. _Crime, murder, mayhem_. And she thought with a sigh, _Sherlock._

She almost cringed to think of her behavior last night. She wasn't usually like that. And definitely not with him.

But Jim or Moriarty or whatever his name was, had changed everything. When she had finally realized that she was a pawn in a dangerous game between Moriarty and Sherlock, it had been enlightening. She finally saw herself. Really saw herself for what she was.

Pathetic and gullible Molly Hooper. A woman who unknowingly helped to aid a notorious criminal and nearly helped to murder Sherlock. And all because she had a case of unrequited feelings for an aloof and potentially asexual man..

How had she let herself get into this position? Lackey to a man who noticed her changed lipstick but not her invitation for a date? She was a doctor, a published scholar in her field, a successful coroner in a top-notch hospital.

She had been disgusted with herself. And while she felt a healthy dose of anger towards "Jim", she felt an irrational amount towards one Sherlock Holmes. The problem was that she didn't know what was stronger: anger or frustrated lust. Before lust had left her angst ridden and crying on her couch at greeting card commercials. Now lust made her want to simultaneously slap his haughty face and ravish that divine mouth. It was damned difficult.

She scowled as she probed further into Mrs. Timmons' chest cavity. She didn't know what her weakness was for the man. Sure, he was smart and brilliant. Not to mention dashing. But there were plenty of other smart, brilliant, and dashing men out there. Many of who were likely not impervious fuckwits with a daredevil streak. Why couldn't she lust after those men?

Unfortunately because the answer was literally right in her hands. The heart. Well, Mrs. Timmons' heart. The illustrious organ responsible for pumping blood to the entire body and the metaphorical place where one felt love.

_Love,_ she thought_, love made people stupid, blind, and utterly useless_. She never would've gotten into this pickle if she weren't so hopelessly in love with Sherlock. And now that most of the illusions about him and herself were gone, well, it made everything that more painful. She wanted to say that she stopped loving him. She had hoped that that the pain of everything, that the realization of her own role in this trite little drama had cured her of her feelings.

But it hadn't. It merely made a mockery of her feelings. She was reluctantly in love and there didn't seem to be an immediate cure. It made her even angrier.

Cursing about the whole bloody situation, she barely heard the squeak of the door before a masculine voice said, "Cursing now, I see. Well, coupled with your rudeness from last night, I conclude that you've suffered a blow to the head or you're having the preverbal bad day."

"Neither. It's actually you. You're bothering me," she said, removing and discarding her bloodied gloves. It felt good to say that. No shy glances, no stuttering sentences. Just direct and clear. The new Molly Hooper.

She finally glanced up as he sauntered into the center of the lab. As he moved closer and stopped a few feet in front of her, she caught a whiff of his cologne. It was spicy and manly. Subtle but deadly. Why did he have to smell so good? Why hadn't the formaldehyde and other scents of death overpowered his masculine scent? As if his presence isn't distracting enough.

It's been days since she last saw him and the carefully constructed façade was in danger of falling. While he's pale as usual, it didn't make him look sickly. Rather the white luminous of his skin made him almost angelic. He still has on his dark coat and scarf, perfectly tied around his neck. His dark curls brush against his collar and shades his quizzical forehead. She hasn't been this close to him since the accident. For good reason, as his ice blue eyes see too much and her illusions are far too costly.

"Here" he said, thrusting her one of the two mugs in his hand, "You got four hours of sleep last night? I'm correct, aren't I?"

"Yes, well, that tends to happen when egomaniacal 'consulting detectives' show up unannounced at 11pm."

"I'm not egomaniacal. The term I prefer is 'high-functioning sociopath'. Besides, I wasn't there because of a case."

She takes a sip from the mug while she tries to think of a response. It's tea, just how she likes it, bitter strong with a heavy dose of sugar and skim milk. She tries not to read too much into that. Observation is his thing.

"Oh, so just for the tea and biscuits?"

"No."

"Well then, what was the reason? What do you need?" she said.

"I…well…I wanted to know…" he said and abruptly stops.

"Out with it, Sherlock. I'm very busy today, there are slabs of bodies come in from a fire in-"

He interrupted, "Are you moving to Leeds?"

"Maybe," she said, noncommittally. "Who told you?"

"John. But…why? Why are you moving?"

"It's a good opportunity for me. New environment, new people. I have family in the north," she said, turning to put the mug on the nearby desk.

"But….I need you here."

She felt her spine stiffen and anger roar inside her. It was so like him to say something like that. She turned quickly and stepped closer. "You need me here?" she repeated in a low and deadly voice.

"Well, yes, you're an integral part of my crime-"

"You need me?" she said, her voice raising an octave higher.

"Yes, you're essential-"

Poking him in the chest, she saw with satisfaction that he finally read her mood, "Oh and so what am I, Molly Hooper, young and ambitious woman, am supposed to what? Drop everything? For you? For you, of all people." A hysterical giggle bubbled up. She felt a bit mad but it felt so good.

He looked both flustered by her anger and a little bit frightened. Good indeed. "Well, yes, maybe…I…well, it's logical"

"Oh, then God forbid I do something illogical like care about my career or leave a place which brings me bad memories. No, I'm better off as a peon to you."

"Why are you so angry? I'm trying to tell you that I want you to stay. Shouldn't that be a compliment?"

"From anyone else, it might be. But not from you. Your flattery is insincere; your compliments have hidden motives. "

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She turned to look him full in the face, " You know what it means. This conversation is over. You're in my lab and you should leave," she gestured towards the door.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what you mean."

"Well, then I'll leave," she said. Grabbing the closest clipboard, she made for the door.

_Pigheaded man! Of all the things he could've said_-but a pale hand on her arm interrupted her thought. She was quickly spun around and before she could open her mouth to speak, his mouth was slanted on hers.

Sherlock was kissing her and she was stunned to say the least.

She thought his kiss might be cold, like the man himself. And while she had dreamt of a scorching kiss, reality always seemed to interfere in her fantasies. Reality always said that kissing Sherlock would likely be like kissing a statue. Icy. Hard. Indifferent.

His lips were hot, soft, and downright aggressive. Her shock couldn't withstand the storm of emotions his kiss wrought. His lips rubbed against hers, molding and shaping her lips. Not indifferent and definitely not cold. But soon his tongue flicked out and traced the seam of her lips, demanding entrance. With a moan, she opened her mouth and his tongue thrust in. Passion sparked between them. Heat, delicious and intoxicating heat, ignited from their fused lips and spread quickly through her body. His hands found their way into her hair, his fingers rubbing against her scalp and sending shivers down her body. She pushed her body against his, stood on her tiptoes, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He moaned into her mouth and it emboldened her. She ran her tongue against the edge of his teeth and thrust her tongue into the warm cavern of his mouth. He tasted of tea and chocolate, a powerful flavor that was so essentially Sherlock.

He pulled her closer, his arm slung around her lower back, fitting them together and bringing her mouth nearly up to his level. And while several layers separated them, she felt the unmistakable hardness of his arousal against her stomach. He wanted her. Badly. That knowledge sent a fresh bolt of desire through her body, making her skin prickle and her nipples harden. Her body arched against him; mindless in her need to feel more, to give more pleasure.

A loud ring and a soft buzz broke through the haze of passion. They broke apart, breathing hard and staring at each other.

She couldn't believe it. They had kissed and it had been amazing. If she didn't see the evidence of his red lips and mussed hair, she might've thought the chemicals in the lab had addled her brain.

But it was real.

The phone went to voicemail. But a moment later a ding indicated a text. Finally taking his eyes off hers, he took out his phone.

"I have to go," he said.

"Sure," she said, still in a daze.

He walked to the door. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_, she thought to right before he walked through the door, he turned back and said, "We need to talk. Later. I'll text."

"Ok," she said softly.

"Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes?" she said uncertainly.

"Your mouth isn't too small," he said with a smile and then he was gone.

**FINIS**

**I hope that you liked it, particularly the kiss. I think that Sherlock would find Molly's defection rather unsettling, particularly as he has come to rely so heavily upon her. And Molly's anger? I grew rather tired of Molly's characterization in the series. While I did like how bold she was (asking Sherlock out ect), I think that she could've done more or been more forward. And frankly, I think that her reaction to Moriarty's betrayal would definitely be anger-both at herself and Sherlock. He's the one who put her into danger and her feelings, well, that made everything rather personal. It was nice to voice that here. Please review!**


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